


Wind through the Windows

by SamSavesMe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Demons, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Metamorphmagus, Plot, Self-Destruction, Squibs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamSavesMe/pseuds/SamSavesMe
Summary: Sam's life has never been solid, to say the least. Schools, moods, the state of his family-- it's all ever-changing. Not even his form will stay the same for more than a day or two without a slip-up. When he's sent to a magic castle with an angry brother by his side, it's simply par for the course for him. His experiences at Hogwarts bring to light a host of questions- about his upbringing, his family, and the fine nuances of what definesmagic. As he unravels the truth about the circumstances of his childhood, he realizes that his story is more complicated than he ever could have imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my computer for years, untouched. Decided to post it and see if people like it-- may continue or may not 
> 
> Warnings for depression, eating disorders, child abuse/neglect. Not much in the first chapter of anything but will get more and more as it goes 
> 
> Also,, credit to Sam at Hogwarts by SeeEmRunning for getting me into HP/SPN crossovers in the first place. It's literally my favorite fanfic, even years later. Check it out if you havent already read it!

The sky is lit up brightly by the sun, not a cloud in sight. A cool, light breeze snakes through the air and tickles the back of Sam’s neck, rustling the sun-baked leaves where they are rooted to the tree branches. All the colors in the world are too bright and flashy, the nearly perfect level of wind adding another layer of surreality into the mix.

Sam hates days like this. They make him want to bury his face into a musty motel room pillow, curl up under a stained comforter, and never have to face the world again. Unnatural brightness makes everything harder for him to control, and he usually begins to lose his grip on the tight reins he keeps on himself. The sweet trill of a pine warbler and the clanging of a melodic windchime resounding from the distance add to the serenity of the scene. Sam has to resist the urge to clench his fist.

The delicate balance that had settled over the bucolic field is shattered by the slamming of a car door and the harsh screeches of metal on metal. He almost melts out of relief when Dean shoves a gun in his direction. Guns Sam can do; Birds and Beauty and Peace he's never quite had the chance to try. “Here ya’ go, Sammy,” his brother greets with a tight smile. He leans over Sam’s back with the cover of adjusting his grip (which is, admittedly, not in need of any real correcting. The weight of the gun feels more natural to Sam’s skin than the gentle touch of another human being.), but took the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “Watch the hair.”

Sam nods in return. Message received.

He scrunches his eyes to block out the light, and lets the familiar waves of blankness that are always lapping at the edges in the back of his mind take control. His face is nothing more than a silhouette, dark, empty, and he can blend in because that’s what it takes to survive in the world. He’s capable of cutting off this piece of himself for the sake of furthering his life (though lately, nagging tidbits of thoughts of why do I even bother? have been leaking through, but Sam pushes these down and buries them with all of the other rejected mindsets that could get him or worse, his family, killed).

One look at Dean's face when Sam tentatively cracks open his eyes lets him know that he was successful. Dean's eyes are heavy and weary, too dark for somebody who's only eleven and a half for christ's sake, but his lips quirk into the familiar smirk that seems to always adorn Dean's face. "Dad decided to let us practice on our own for a while today, Sammy. He may not be able to pick us up like he dropped us off, but we're not that far a walk from the hotel. He's on his way to something important right now, but might stop by later to check in with us, so no slacking," Dean says. 

Sam snorts lightly and lifts his eyebrows. Really, Dean, his expression seems to say, I may only be seven, but I'm not stupid, no matter what you and dad think. I know what 'busy' means. Sam mentally pushes the images of his dad drowning himself in whiskey aside and says out loud, "Okay, sounds good."

They spend an hour or so refining their aim, but pack up earlier than they normally would. Sam's still too small to be able to compensate for the kick of the gun after he shoots, the recoil throwing his entire body back each and every time. After about twelve shots, his sore and aching muscles are done for the day. Dean, who has had a few more years to build a tolerance, gets in a few more shots with nothing but the occasional wince, but he too is exhausted after a short while. The brothers' muscles are thin and cordy, like tough stretches of rope threaded through the underside of their skin. They were born out of necessity rather than carefully monitored protein intake and recreational weight-lifting. Sam and Dean consider themselves lucky to get two meals a day, let alone food with any sort of substantial nutritional value. 

With a nod, Dean leads Sam to the edge of the dirt path bordering the field. It's a long walk to the motel, and it's already getting late. They had been dropped off around five, and the sun had gone from its halfway point in the sky to a point tucked just slightly above the horizon while they practiced. The pleasant wind that had been refreshing earlier in the day is now on the side of too cold. Sam shivers and hunches down further into his threadbare jacket. 

Yeah, it's going to be a long walk. 

They're along an empty paved road now, at least, making the trek marginally easier. A lone pair of headlights cuts through the hazy dusk ahead in the distance, coming towards the Winchesters head-on. They pull their guns closer to their bodies and to the side away from the road, trying their best not to draw attention to the fact that they are children walking around with shotguns half their size. Sam and Dean move over to the side to avoid the car. With their short heights and skinny bodies, there's no guarantee that the car will see them, especially if they're preoccupied with screaming kids in the backseat or their radio blasting away. The car trundles by slowly, the driver scanning the Winchesters intently. An uncomfortable prickling sensation spreads through Sam's spine, and even with the car long in the distance, it doesn't go away. 

Dean had perked up, body stiff now and his gait carefully controlled. He had felt it too, then. Sam adapts a carefully measured pace as well, letting each step fall casually and slightly off-beat. This feels more naturally than walking normally. Their dad had ingrained this walk into them from such a young age that it was second nature, like slipping into your most comfortable pair of sweats after a long day in a suit (except Sam hates this, hates hunting, hates how comfortable he is sliding into the position of predator. He'd take a suit over a hunter's sprawl any day).

They're both on such high alert that even the slight bending of a blade of grass in the wind wouldn't have passed unnoticed, which is why the brothers are so surprised when they quite literally run into someone. "What the hell?" Dean blurts, his grip on his gun loosening in surprise. It clatters to the ground with a resounding clang. The man they had almost run into is of average height and slightly above average weight. His hair is very dark brown and plastered to his forehead with sweat, just a slight shade darker than his skin. One very out of the ordinary thing about him, though, is his choice of clothing. 

Dean cuts in before he even has a chance to process what he's seeing, "Who the hell are you? Answer my question, or I'll shoot." Sam doesn't feel it prudent to point out that Dean's gun is in fact resting on the ground, rendering it useless in the current situation.

The man opens his mouth to speak, and when the words come out, they are heavy and deliberate, contradicting the words’ meaning. "Silence, child. We don't have much time, and I'd rather not resort to violence against the hunter if it can be helped." All sorts of alarms were already blaring in their heads, and this new information sets off a few more. Anything that knows about the Winchester's hunting status isn't good news.

Sam still has his grip on his gun, and he knows he should shoot. Really, he does. Some part of his mind tells him to hold off though, despite his father's voice screaming in the back of his head that hesitation will get their family killed. He pulls the gun down by his side, but he doesn't put the safety on. "Explain," he says. He tries to force his high-pitched voice down an octave to make himself sound more menacing, but all that achieves is making it crack slightly. Dean snorts softly in amusement at that.

The man seems taken aback for a second at being talked to that way by a seven-year-old, but he recovers quickly and says, "It's not usually done this way, but we've all agreed that this is a unique case that merits equally unique handling." He stops speaking for a moment and looks at Sam pointedly, though Sam has no idea the reason as to why. "It was determined by a council that taking Dean and leaving you, Sam, would put you at too much risk to be allowed. I'm under orders to pick you both up at the same time, if you wish to come, that is."

They don't respond, both still without a clue about what is going on, so the man continues. "Our records indicate that you're a metamorphmagus, though I suppose it's obvious now that a mistake was made somewhere in the paperwork. I'm not quite sure how somebody could make such a large mistake, but it'll be looked in to, that much I am sure of. However, I can be absolutely certain that you are both wizards. That, at least, I have witnessed with my own eyes."

Dean seems to regain control, and slips easily into a faux casual stance. "Listen, buddy. I don't know what you're on about, and believe me, I don't want to know, but I know what I'm talking about. Let me tell you, nobody is my family is a freakin' wizard. We've never even come across a demon, so it’s not like any of us could have or would have sold our soul. Fact is, dad doesn't even know if they exist. If you leave now, we can both just forget that this whole mess ever happened."

Sam knows firsthand the terror that Dean's 'hunter' voice can strike in a person; it had been used on him a few times in the past to scare him in line. He's prepared for the man to turn tail and run, or for him to pale slightly and stutter out a few excuses to save face. Sam is not, however, prepared for the man's teeth to split into a wide grin and for him to give a full-bodied chuckle. "Yes, yes," he said, half to himself. "I was expecting something along these lines, though you are certainly a character, that's for sure.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning. My name is Ed Morris, and I work for the Center for the Control and Tracking of Underage Wizards. Your family has been on my watch list for quite some time, both because of your history and Sam's supposed form-changing abilities." At that, the brothers exchange an uneasy glance, but he continues, oblivious. "You boys are both wizards. Not the kind your family is used to hunting, of course; no, there's natural and demonic- you two are both natural, unless there's something I should know about." The man laughs at his own joke. Neither Sam nor Dean can find the supposed humor. 

"Now, I really am running out of time. You are both welcome to choose however you wish. You may come with me, and you'll attend a school for wizards where you'll learn how to control your powers and harness them for the greater good. Or you can stay, if you'd like, but you'd pose a threat to society each minute you spend in the outside world untrained. Decide. I can explain more later, if you’d like." 

Ed eyes them with a severe look in his gaze, making it clear which of the two routes he expects them to decide upon. A few charged, tense moments of silence pass, and then something seems to switch into place in Dean's mind, and he begins to speak. "Sorry, dude. You need some help, and I hope you get it. But for now, my brother and I are going to get out of here. If you even try to stand in our way, my dad will make sure there's hell to pay." 

The strange man in front of them seems sad, disappointed, maybe even a little bit resigned. He's not the least bit surprised, though. Dean puts his hand, calloused from handling knives and tools and guns for hours a day, firmly around Sam's wrist and pulls. Something's still disconnected between Sam's brain and the rest of his body. His legs stay firmly cemented in place, but Dean's tugging pulls his upper body along with him down the sidewalk. 

He means to explain himself when he opens his mouth, really he does, but he’s had a long day and his muscles hurt and he just wants everything to be over. “Wait,” he says. Dean’s and Ed’s heads both snap up at the same time, like a synchronised dance (and that though would be enough to make him laugh at any other time, but right now his heart is pounding too hard and his throat’s constricting in a way that makes it hard to breathe). An emotion akin to hope is rising in Ed’s eyes, while Dean just looks confused. His head is tilted to the side, and his eyes are wide. Sam feels the grip on his wrist tighten ever so slightly, and he thinks that Dean probably isn’t even aware he’s doing it. 

“I’ll come.” The words leave Sam’s mouth before he registers their meaning. He doesn’t take them back, though. All he can think about are the times where he and Dean had to go for days without food because their dad forgot to leave money or that time they had to last a week without shelter because Dad couldn’t rake up the cash for rent. He’s thinking about how scared he is all the time, of what’s wrong with him, and there’s so much wrong with him he doesn’t know where to begin to fix it. Sam’s fed up with trying to hide his rocking back and forth or his muttering from his dad. His eyes feel heavy from all the missed sleep because he can't control it when he's asleep and no matter what John can't see. 

When he says those two words, he can see in his mind the expression on his dad’s face that night a year and a half ago when Sam was sure John was actually going to kill him. John’s eyes had been stormier than a hurricane and the shadows in his face enough to make Sam want to run and hide. Sam thinks about the nightmares, and the guns, and the weapons, and about his dwindling desire to live. “Please help me,” he adds without meaning to. His voice wavers, and for the first time in years, he actually sounds his age. 

Ed nods, a loose, concerned smile adorning his elegant features. “Dean,” the man asks hesitantly, “have you changed your mind? It’s not too late, you know.”

Dean’s eyes start to water for a fraction of a second, but the eleven-year-old quickly steels his expression and stubbornly juts out his jaw. Sam knows the look, the one that Dean’s always gotten when he wants to conceal it when something’s bothering him. More specifically, he always looks like that when he’s hurt and doesn’t want to show it. His voice burns like acid when he talks, caustic and harsh. “If Sam wants to abandon the family, that’s fine, but I’ll always stick by dad. He can count on me. I can be a good son.” Sam feels his heart start to wilt and wither, surely to never recover.

Ed nods once and says, “If you’re sure.” He turns to Sam and holds out a rather large Barbie doll that he had pulled from the significantly smaller pocket of the orange robes he’s wearing. “Take it.” Sam obeyed, even as everything in his body wanted to rebel as he saw the fleeting expression on Dean’s face. Still, Sam had been conditioned his whole life to follow orders to a letter even when under great emotional duress, and at least some good had to come out of being trained by John Winchester for seven years. 

Sam wants to say so many things ( _I’m sorry please forgive me I don’t want to hurt you Stay safe I love you_ ), but Dean and the sidewalk they were standing on is gone in a flash of color. The clear, blue sky is replaced by a heavy darkness while Sam’s entire body is jerked around through an endless twister.  
When they land, they’re in a clean office that smells faintly of plastic and artificial air freshener. Ed tells Sam to take a seat on a stained yellow sofa. Sam complies easily, too numb to argue. He checks the room for all possible entrances and exits, years of habit dying hard, but past that, he just sits and waits for whatever’s next to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings apply. Probably a little dissociation as well?

People are touching Sam and trying to get him to speak. He can’t even get his thoughts in order, let alone his words. A woman with a soft voice dripping with a heavy southern accent says, “Sam, honey, you need to answer us. We can’t help if you don’t talk. At least look up, please.”

He wants to respond, but he’s too tired and his limbs can’t seem to get moving. When Sam fails to react, the same person remarks to the other people presumably in the room that she thinks Sam is just reacting to the trauma of the day and needs time to come back to himself. He has to agree.

Sam drifts for a while, content to let the sounds wash over him. He hasn’t slept in two days and he’s only seven; a nap sounds good right about now. That thought more than anything is what sends him into action. Sleep means bad and out of control and danger.

He sits up right quickly, making his head rush and his body slump. A different man than the one who had retrieved Sam is sitting at the desk in the corner typing away at his keyboard. The plate on his desk reads ‘Robert Tynton’. He’s tall, thin, and very well-dressed in a prim suit and tie. Robert seems startled when Sam starts to stir. “Hold on,” the man says in a deep, gruff voice. “I’ll go get somebody to help you. I’m useless when it comes to things like this.”

The man comes back with three or so more adults who also claim to be natural wizards or witches. They spend almost half an hour giving him a runthrough of the basics of the “wizarding world” (and yeah, apparently these people actually have a society with their own set of laws and businesses and schools; who knew). At the end of their spiel, they look at him expectantly. He obliges them. “Prove it.”

The main witch who had done most of the explaining looks surprised, but she quickly schools her expression and asks calmly, “Prove what?”.

Sam snorts through his nose and huffs a half-laugh, expressing his derision in the only way he knows how. “This. This world. Show me what you mean. Please.” If his last word comes out strained and the tiniest bit desperate, well, none of them mention it.

She nods, and pulls a piece of wood from the front pocket of her robe (they’re all dressed in freakin floor-length robes. What has he gotten himself in to?). She points it at a lamp on the desk in the corner and whispers something too softly for Sam to make out. A second passes with nothing happening, and then a loud crack echoes through the room, and with it rises a cloud of thick smoke. When the smoke clears out enough for them to see, the lamp is gone, and in its place is a torch that’s producing the same smoke that the spell had just a few moments previously. Its flame is a dark blue, almost the color of the solid part of the ocean far away from shore. The base of the torch is in the shape of a cone, with the skinniest point resting on the desk. There’s no way that it should be able to stand, but it is. 

The woman- Amanda Spurel, Sam corrects himself; they had all introduced themselves, but he’s having a hard time keeping track of all the new information- smiles, and her enthusiasm shines in her eyes. “That’s one of my favorite parlor tricks. There’s not really any practical use, I suppose, but it’s fun, and it makes lots of pretty light and loud noises.” As her voice turns more somber, her eyes start to dull and her beautiful, dazzling grin fades. “But that probably didn’t help you much, did it?” Sam can’t bring himself to say yes, so he just looks down. She seems to understand. 

“It’s going to take time. To come to terms with it all, I mean. Nothing I can do or say at the moment will help much, I’m afraid. For now, let’s just work on getting your arrangements in order.”

The spend the better part of the next hour tossing around ideas. Sam mostly stays quiet, only answering when a direct response is required to a question. It’s decided that he’ll stay with a woman in the United States who has natural connections to both the wizarding world and the supernatural world until he’s of schooling age. They show him a picture of her; she looks very nice and homely, with a kind but stern smile and a way of holding herself that makes Sam feel like she’d have a very warm personality. Her hair’s pulled back with a simple headband that matches the pretty necklaces she has draped around her neck. The top of the sheet has her name printed across it: Missouri Moseley. 

Amanda tells him that they can bring him to Missouri’s house at nine tomorrow morning, but that he’ll have to spend the night in the ‘office’ (she calls it the ministry). Sam asks one last question as they bring him down a long, carpeted hallway that leads to a room where they have temporary emergency boarding that he can utilize. “Why did Ms. Moseley agree to take me in? How did you even get a hold of her this quickly?”

“Well,” Amanda replies, cracking open the fourth door on the right and poking her head in, “she’s a very powerful psychic, which is how she became aware of the existence of our kind in the first place. Her next-door neighbors as a young kid were a family of half-bloods, and her unique gifts clued her in to the fact that something was off about the people next door. Finding out the rest, well, that was just purely human curiosity.” At Sam’s confused look, she added, “Half-blood means one witch and one wizard, a bit of a stupid term, really. It’s just what we’ve always said.

“Anyway, after a young Missouri oversaw some rather, um, questionable spells being cast, the ministry had no choice but to explain the situation to her.”

“Doesn’t the government have any way of dealing with that?” Sam asks. “I mean, it sounds like people seeing magic on accident would be a big deal.”

“We do. Unfortunately, we have to resort to memory modifying spells from time to time to make sure that both sides stay safe. Honestly, the non-magical world is better off not knowing of the magical world’s existence, a fact that has been proven time and time again throughout history. Being such a strong psychic made Ms. Moseley an unusual case, however. The risk of her brain discovering the modifications, fighting back, and causing her permanent damage was too great. Ever since, she’s been a very beneficial connection to the Muggle- non-magical- world, and the hunting world.”

There’s so much that has been said that Sam wants to question, to argue with, but his dad’s voice fills his head and drowns out everything else before he even has the chance to open his mouth. Don’t question authority. Your ability to turn your brain off, close your mouth, and listen has the power to determine between life and death not just for yourself, but for all of us. Instead of asking how taking away someone’s right to their own memories could possibly be the best option, or questioning how exactly she came to the conclusion that non-magical people couldn’t benefit at all from wizards, he yawns. It’s been a very long day, and his body is feeling its effects. 

“Go on to sleep now.” Amanda shoos him into the room, which contains a single metal bunk bed frame with a thin mattress. There’s a small table tucked away in the corner that holds a bible, small notebook, and pen. The smell of antiseptic overwhelms Sam’s senses and reminds him of the various times he’s had to spend the night in a hospital in his short life. Hunting’s a dangerous job- always has been and always will be, especially when John Winchester’s the one calling the shots. Caution is not his forte.

As Sam falls asleep, he wishes that he had been able to take a shower. He pushes the thought away and forces himself to drift off. Sleep doesn’t come easily, but he knows he needs to get as many hours as possible tucked under his bed before the morning so that he’s able to get up before anybody’s able to see him asleep. The door had already been shut and locked by him firmly before he crawled into bed, but once somebody discovers that fact, it won’t last long. A nagging voice creeps into his head, telling him he should just let them know- after all, they’re freakin wizards who have magical wands- but he shoves the suggestion down ruthlessly and without mercy. His dad would have his head if he could hear him now.

With that, he turns over to face the blank wall. That’s where he gets in trouble with sleeping, most of the time. He lets his brain stray, which nothing short of assures that he’ll be unable to sleep for hours.

-

 

Grey light starts to stream in through the window much too early for Sam’s liking, but he bolts out of bed regardless. He’s already dressed, groomed, and sitting on the bed patiently when Amanda comes to retrieve him around eight. If she notices that he’s wearing the same outfit he was in yesterday, she doesn’t say anything. He wishes he could have his few meager possessions, but he knows that retrieving them isn’t remotely in the realm of possibility. “Been up for long?” she asks casually, leaning against the frame of the doorway while he grabs his jacket from where it was resting on the back of the desk chair. Luckily he had been wearing it yesterday.

Sam gives a half-shrug and smiles. Amanda doesn’t need to know that he’s been up for three hours, or that he had only gotten about two and a half in total last night. They go down the hallway in a different direction than they had the previous night. Only the sound of their feet lightly making contact with the plush carpet can be heard. 

They arrive in a cozy room tucked away in the corner of the building with a wide, open window from floor to ceiling letting the beautiful morning sunlight stream in. A fire is roaring in a stone fireplace, which is odd for a day in the peak of the summer, but hey, for all Sam knows he could have been transported to the middle of freakin’ Alaska. 

When Amanda throws some weird fairy dust in the flames and tells him to hop on in, Sam’s not even the least bit surprised. Hell, he’d grabbed onto a Barbie doll of all things to travel yesterday, why would any of the wizards’ other forms of transportation be any more normal? Sam steps into the flames, not allowing the suspicion and fear of all things unnatural instilled in him since he was a toddler overwhelm him.

Just as he feels the flames tickling the backs of his legs, Amanda looks at him with a melancholy smile playing at her lips. “Hey Sam,” she asks quietly, “please stay safe. Try.”

He nods and is instructed to say an address. As soon as the words leave his lips, he’s lurched away in a spinning flurry of heat and soot that passes in a blur. The ride’s a good forty-seven seconds, not that Sam’s counting or anything. When his feet finally touch normal ground again, he wants to get down on the floor and hug the earth for being there and solid, but Sam settles for doing his best not to let his knees buckle. The next thing he knows he’s being lifted up by the arm and set down upright with a surprising amount of force for a woman of such short stature. 

The woman smiles kindly and sticks out a hand that Sam shakes in return. “Missouri Moseley,” she says. “I’d take it you’re Sam Winchester?”

Sam nods and forces a smile. He knows she’s a powerful psychic, he’d been informed multiple times since he found out that he was going to stay with he, but he should at least try to pretend he’s happy, at least for a little while. The facade’s more for his sake than Ms. Moseley’s.

They sit down for breakfast- waffles and eggs and fresh, ripe oranges- and make small talk. It’s nice, in a way, to be able to just… let go. They don’t talk about anything of great importance, only trivial things like where Sam’s going to be attending school (and he’d be lying if he said the prospect of that in of itself makes him want to laugh in delight) and what he wants from the grocery store.

Sam settles into life with Missouri in no time, remarkably adaptable for a kid his age.That’s mostly a result of being the son of John Winchester. He starts going to school a month after he arrives, a small brick building nestled away in the suburbs of Lawrence. The halls reek of ignorance and normality, all the things he’d been taught to fear, but Sam thrives in the routine of it all. He makes all A’s and even has a few friends by the time he turns eight. They get a call home one day-- Sam’s teacher thinks it would serve him well to skip a grade, and all she needs is the permission of a guardian. Missouri agrees without any hesitation. “Boy, with the kind of work you’ve been doing, I wouldn’t be surprised if they called to talk about moving you to college,” she had said half-jokingly after the call. 

Nothing bothers them, magical or supernatural or otherwise. A few officials from the wizarding world had come a few short days after Sam’s arrival to strengthen the magical wards they had put up and to sort out a few last minute sheets of paperwork. It’s peaceful, and Sam feels like he can breathe for the first time in his life. It’s not that Missouri doesn’t yell or lose her temper, or even make it known that she wants him to strive to do better in everything he does. Sam hadn’t minded John’s criticism, it was the fact that it had been about things he had no control over or fundamental aspects of his personality that had made him want to claw his own skin off just to get away from the life. Missouri doesn’t chastise him for talking too fast or sometimes not at all when he’s excited, or for his weird habits that he does when he’s stressed or anxious. She doesn’t know about his, well, his problem with his appearance, but in the few times that Sam’s allowed himself to dream about telling her, he doesn’t think she’d be too angry about it.

Sam hasn’t allowed himself to change how he looks in over a year. He’s not entirely sure he could even if he wanted to anymore, he’s suppressed it and shoved it down inside of himself for so long. Whenever he catches himself idly thinking about it, his brain shuts down and goes haywire. So, he avoids dwelling on it at all costs. He’s surprisingly okay with that- it’s not like it’s worse than when he was living with his family.

It’s everything of which Sam could have ever dreamed. He’s nine, strong, and as sure of himself and where he stands in the world as a nine-year-old can be. Sam’s not ok, not by any stretch of the imagination. He wakes up gasping from nightmares nightly and spends a lot of his days away from his family utterly miserable, but sometimes, he’s pretty alright. He allows a small part of himself to believe that he’s finally going somewhere that’s not straight downhill. Soon enough, though, an owl pecking at his window brings instability once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's slow getting started, but I have so many plans for this work. Intent is about 100k+. I just found my notebook on this fic from a few years ago and it has about 30 pages of plans haha. I have three chapters written from when I started this fic, so at least one more chapter will be posted after this one. Beyond that, it depends on my motivation, time, and if you guys think the story is worth continuing or not. 
> 
> Please review!!!! I know there's not much here yet but this story means a lot to me and I would love to hear your feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real trigger warnings that haven't already popped up. 
> 
> 3/4 of this chapter was written three years ago and I wrote the last 1/4 today. I feel like there's a noticeable change in style at that point, but I'm going to fix it later and probably edit the first two chapters as well to be more like my current style. However, I wanted to get this chapter out because I would otherwise never get around to posting it. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

“Long time, no see,” Amanda says with a grin on her slightly-wrinkled face. She had aged some in the past three years, just enough to be noticeable if you look closely. Her smile is as bright as ever, though, and she seems genuinely happy to see Sam again. 

The owl had carried a scrap of paper with only a sentence scrawled across it. _“I’ll be arriving in a few hours to discuss a few matters with you. --Amanda Spurel”_ Sam hadn’t been too worried at first. Needing to talk over a few things isn’t a catastrophe by itself; he had assumed that they merely wanted to make sure Missouri was still okay with him living at her home. When Sam had showed her the note, she had smiled and nodded her approval of the meeting.

Sam began to feel the beginning of the panic, however, when Missouri curled her face up into a pained grimace the second Amanda popped into the room (Apparition, he would later find out). If he had learned anything in his three years living with Missouri, it was to always trust the psychic. Her instincts were almost always right. 

“As you were told all those years ago, though it’s alright if your memories of that day are a bit hazy, it’s traditional that most kids start school when they’re eleven. However, with it being that you skipped a grade, it would seem foolish to force you to start non-magic Middle school. As it is, the board had already agreed to let you start a year earlier than other students. This had been agreed upon almost a year ago, but over the past week, some… surprising demands have been made, and it’s in the best interests of all involved to comply.

Amanda’s nose wrinkles in derision more and more the longer she speaks. She says, “I won’t sugarcoat it: your brother’s throwing something of a tantrum, and things could go disastrously wrong if we don’t at least try to appease him. He’s demanding you be brought to school so he can ‘keep an eye on you,’ whatever that means.”

A myriad of questions race through Sam’s head, though all of them are far too long and complex to grasp. What do you mean ‘my brother’? Are you talking about Dean? Why are you in contact with him? What school is he at? Is he with dad? there are so many things he’s desperate to ask after years of not so much as a word from his family, but instead, a well-thought out and articulate “Huh?” falls from his lips. Missouri remains impassive, staring firmly but not unkindly at Amanda. Sam can sense a faint trace of something exuding off of her in waves in the very back of his mind where all of his weirdness is stored, though he can’t quite identify what she’s feeling. 

Amanda smiles in what she probably thinks is a reassuring way, though the general effect is somewhat ruined by the expression of distaste firmly cemented on her face, as if she can smell a pile of rotting fish in the corner but doesn’t want to be rude by mentioning it. “Your brother accepted our offer after all, Sam. It was actually just a few hours after you were placed with Ms. Moseley that our workers picked up the trace from him. He was old enough to go to school, so that was that.”  
She seems to notice the indignant expression rising on Sam’s normally carefully blank face and continues with a slightly sheepish grin, “His only request was that you not be informed of his whereabouts. I truly am sorry, if it means anything. Please understand, we had to comply. Anything to make sure that young wizards are properly trained and given the ability to control their wonderful gifts.”

 _Sorry._ Sam’s brother doesn’t want to see him ( _doesn’t care about him anymore_ ) and had been off for two entire years alone, and she was _sorry_. Still, he shouldn’t shoot the messenger. “It’s not your fault,” Sam says, voice still high with youth and quiet, timid, and soft because that’s just how Sam is “There’s no reason for you to be sorry.”

She laughs a little in a self-deprecating way and says, “Yeah. Thanks for that. You really are a sweetheart. Anyway, in the past week he’s changed his tune. He’s incredibly insistent: either we bring you to school or he leaves and spreads the location of it. With his knowledge of hunter circles, this has caused quite a bit of alarm in the British wizarding world. Now, his plan is extremely flawed and it really is very much in the realm of our ability to stop him, but it’s a last resort. It would require a significant memory charm, which always risks the possibility of lasting side effects.”

Amanda pauses, clearly waiting for a response from Sam. He doesn’t have anything to say. She continues to speak, filling his head with all the details of what he needs to know. Dean’s at a school called Hogwarts located in the United Kingdom. Sam couldn’t help but think she might be pulling his leg when he heard the name. Seriously? _Hogwarts?_

A few moments later he finds himself agreeing to something he hasn’t fully processed yet. The small part of himself that had become accustomed to being allowed to make a fair amount of decisions protests, but he quells it ruthlessly. It’s not like he has any choice. His life is completely dictated at this point by whatever the magic government decides to do with him. There’s no point in fighting. 

He’s not to attend classes yet, that much he was able to understand. For what will be only the second time in the school’s history, he’ll live there for a year before he starts actually being involved in the majority of activities. Instead, he’ll live there under the watchful eye of the teachers and be given work from a Muggle school to complete while he waits. All the other details about his future accommodations, though, fly straight over his head and out the window. Amanda may as well have told him nothing for all the information that he retained. 

Before he knows it, he’s being led by the shoulder into his (former) bedroom to collect his meager belongings. His duffel from his years of hunting is still with John. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if the hunter had salted and burned it the day he had left. Missouri had gotten him enough clothes and toiletries to get by with the money the ministry provided her, but it certainly wasn’t a lot. It all fit into two paper grocery bags that Ms. Moseley brought him from the kitchen. 

Sam stands in the doorway of the only room he had known for longer than a month or two, and doesn’t let himself feel as he says goodbye. Now is not the time to let his mind drift. Emotions corrupt and lead to him losing Control. It seems even with thousands of miles of distance between them Sam can’t escape the shadow of John’s parenting. Maybe going overseas will help, who knows?

Amanda ushers him over to the fireplace. He’s about to accept the floo powder she’s offering when Missouri draws him in for a big, long bear hug. It’s not usually their style; they’d both much prefer a tap on the shoulder or smile. Despite this, her arms are soft, warm, and feel like home. He starts to pull away, but she pulls him back in one more time and whispers, “Be careful, Sam. Take care.” Her words, while light in meaning, sound so heavy. Permanent. 

As Sam steps into the fire and surveys the room, he says, “Thanks for everything, Ms. Moseley. I hope I’ll see you soon.” With that, he says the name of his destination and prays nobody heard the crack in his voice caused by a short cry rising in the back of his throat. He inhales an unhealthy amount of smoke and ash on his trip. By the time he’s spit out into a room (presumably in London), he’s tamped down his emotions enough to get them back under control. Thank the heavens for that, at least. 

Amanda follows shortly. Sam has a moment to glance around the room and take in his surroundings. The walls are a smooth grey stone, and the floor is covered by a plush red carpet. A desk sits in the corner, though there’s nothing on it to indicate that it’s in use. “This is just a room designated for floo travel in and out of the school, “ Amanda explains, almost as if she’s reading his mind. Sam wonders with a start if that’s actually something wizards can do. He’ll look into it the first chance he gets. For now, he settles for forcing down his mental blocks and reigning in his emotions once again. That’s all he seems to be doing today. 

“Follow me.” Left with nothing better to do, Sam does. 

They pass a number of magnificent sights, things Sam couldn’t have imagined even in his wildest dreams. The building itself is large and grandiose, with that ancient and mysterious aura of the castles you always hear described in storybooks but never actually see in real life. Sam stifles the excitement coursing through him at the mere thought of the endless puzzles this building must contain. The hallways have high ceilings that make every tiny sound the two of them make echo all around. If he were given the time and free reign to be who he actually is, he would gladly spend hours sitting in the middle of the hallway, just tapping the floor and hitting it and smacking it to hear the answering call off the walls. He refrains. 

Sam and Amanda finally arrive at a large set of oak doors with a silver doorknob. “This way,” she encourages, holding the door open for him to enter. Sam draws a deep breath in and holds it. He exhales, preparing himself for whatever he may find through the doors before he steps over the threshold. 

Inside is a room the size of a football field. There’s not a ceiling, and Sam can see straight through to the afternoon sunlight (he has to remind himself that he jumped across a significant number of time zones, making the position of the sun very disorienting). He absently wonders what the school does in the case of rain, but he tucks the question away into a file in the corner of his mind to be further examined at a later time. For now, his attention is caught by the relatively small but lively group of adults seated at a square table in the very center of room. Their light-hearted chattering fills the room from the floor to the non-existent ceiling, a bright, resonating chorus that swells and decrescendos as sweetly as the loveliest of tunes. When Amanda lets the door swing shut behind them, their music dissolves into the air around them.

It seems like all the heads swivel towards the doorway. A woman to the right of the man in the center stands to greet them. She towers over the room and is of a slightly muscular build despite the wrinkles all across her face. She has on an emerald green robe that suits her quite nicely, if Sam has anything to say on it. “Ah, Ms. Spurel,” the woman says as she nears them. “It’s a pleasure to be seeing you yet again. Is this Mr. Winchester you have with you here?”

“Yep,” Amanda says with a grin. “His name’s Sam.”

Sam’s cheek flush bright red. He _loathes_ when people talk about him like he’s not there. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, though; there’s no reason to call any more attention to himself than the situation requires. “Well, I hate to be so brief, but if everything’s alright I really do have to run.” Amanda gives one more grin and dashes from the room. Sam doesn’t even have the chance to say goodbye. 

“Now, welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Winchester. I presume that you would prefer to see your brother before you join us to eat?”

Whatever Sam had been expecting right off the bat, it most certainly wasn’t that. Hell, he still has his grocery bags of belongings tucked under his arm, and she’s already on to reuniting with the brother he hadn’t seen in two years because Sam had abandoned him, had abandoned the _family, and oh my God this isn’t how it was supposed to be. Dean is going to hate him, or maybe he won’t even want to see him. After all, the only thing that Sam brought to Dean’s life was more stress and more worry. Oh God, Sam’s not ready, he’s not ready and he’s going to-_

“Dean remains at the school during the summer holiday. Your brother’s previous summer arrangements didn’t go as well as one would hope.” WIth that, the older woman took a deep breath, a glint of frustration appearing in her eyes. “He’s up in the dormitories right now if you would like to meet him. Students not in a house are not usually allowed in that house’s common room, though I suppose I may make an exception in this circumstance as you havn’t been sorted yet.”

Most of what the woman says is complete and total gibberish to Sam, but the mention of Dean’s name is enough to pull him out of his internal downward spiral. “Yeah, yeah okay,” Sam says. It sounds like he’s talking himself into it.”I’d like to see my brother, if it’s alright.”

“Of course,” the woman says. “Follow me.” She leads him back out of the double doors and through the hallway once again, almost exactly the way that Sam and Amanda came. Instead of making a left at the painting of a forest, though, she continues straight. The walk continues for an eternity, down endless corridors and twisting staircases that shouldn’t be structurally sound. Sam almost falls off of one when it lurches to the right with no warning while he’s on it. His escort manages to get a hold of his arm just in time to prevent his death. “Watch out now,” she cautions. 

Sam gets lost in thought after that. Why is Dean here? Would had happened to hunting? Sam hasn’t felt so small and out of the loop since they had lived with Dad. They finally arrive at a large painting of an attractive woman garbed in a white tunic of sorts and with a wreath of flowers braided into her hair. She’s sleeping at the moment, but the second Sam’s companion allows her foot to fall a tad too heavily on the ground, she leaps awake. “Hello,” the woman greets cheerfully, too much pep in her haughty voice. Which is all well and good, Sam supposes, if you ignore the small detail of her being a portrait. He dismisses it as something unique to the magic world, an act he’s afraid he’ll grow accustomed to in the next few months of his life.

The woman whispers something to the portrait, and some sort of secret door is revealed behind the painting. It looks like a tunnel into one of those submarines that Sam had seen on the TV at Ms. Moseley’s house. God, this castle is a death trap. He doesn’t think he’ll ever make it out alive. She enters the hole and crawls through, still managing to look dignified despite having to hunch down in order to fit. Sam has no choice but to follow. He realizes belatedly that his hands are shaking. He’s sure that his voice would tremble if he were able to speak. As it is, he doesn’t think he’d find himself capable of talking even if his life depended on it. 

Sam is led up the stairs by the elbow. His legs are too short, and he keeps tripping over the steps. He wants to look around, to take in his brand new surroundings. Sam knows himself though, and he knows that he needs _time_ for things like this. His brain works very very fast; he can feel the connections zinging through it at a pace much faster than that of the happenings of the world around him. Its limits for new information, though, are incredibly strict. He doesn’t dare overwhelm his senses now, not with the professor watching so closely. Sam would most certainly lose control. 

Even with his careful monitoring, Sam does almost lose control at his first glimpse of his brother. 

_Dean._

His green eyes are brighter than the last time Sam was with him. He’s also filled out some; his arms are much wider and the ghosts of his ribs are no longer visible through his t-shirt. Dean looks healthy, strong. Sam wonders what Dean is seeing as he surveys Sam. Does he look better too? Or is he just pudgy from slacking off so much over the last few years? Suddenly, Sam regrets taking so much time off of hunting. If he had truly been dedicated, he could have found a way to continue even under Missouri’s watchful care. It would have been difficult, but at least he wouldn’t currently be dealing with such an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. 

Dean cracks a slight grin, which ends up coming off more like a smirk. Even Dean’s facial expressions are different now, nothing but an echo of their former selves. Sure, the angle of his smile is the same, but his teeth are whiter and brighter now and his smile has a confidence to it that hadn’t existed before. Dean is definitely no longer an insecure eleven-year-old desperately trying to get through each day. No, he’s a teenager who’s growing into something great. A little hollow part in Sam’s chest aches at the idea that he has missed out on the last two years of his brother’s life. God, Sam had missed Dean so much. 

Now is when the typical nine-year-old would launch themselves at Dean for a hug. After all, reuniting with your brother and best friend doesn’t happen every day, and it definitely warrants a display of affection. Dean’s grin is wary, though, and there’s a gleam of distrust in Dean’s eye. Sam waits to see if Dean will initiate contact, and when it’s obvious that none is forthcoming, Sam decides it’s better that way. The brothers need to become reacquainted with each other after so long apart; they’re not strangers, but they’re definitely not the close siblings from before. In their two years apart something major, the very foundation of their relationship had shifted two meters to the left. They don’t fit together like a puzzle anymore, that much is clear from their first thirty seconds together. 

Really, Sam doesn’t much like physical contact anyway. 

Dean finally steps forward and firmly pats him on the shoulder. Not quite a hug, but not exactly a rejection, either. He simply says, “Sammy,” and he doesn’t need to say anything more, not yet at least. Dean’s voice had come out gruff and at least an octave deeper than when Sam had heard it last. 

They have a lot of catching up to do- apparently Dean had hit puberty for god’s sake, but for now, Sam’s content. Being in Dean’s presence has filled Sam to the brim with warmth, sealing up all the cracks inside of him that he hadn’t even known existed. No matter how different they both are, Sam knows that all will become right in the world again soon enough. It’s just going to take a bit of effort to restore their relationship, and if there’s anything that Sam’s not scared of, it’s hard work. Sam only hopes that Dean feels the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!! Reviews mean the world to me.


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